


Truth Be Told

by tenderly_wicked



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Illya, Hurt/Comfort, Illya Whump, Possibly Pre-Slash, Torture, Touch-Starved, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27457486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: According to spy movies, truth serum works like this: they give you one injection, and you instantly start answering questions, unable to lie. In reality, it’s more complicated.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 78





	Truth Be Told

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss)!

According to spy movies, truth serum works like this: they give you one injection, and you instantly start answering questions, unable to lie. In reality, it’s more complicated and ugly.

There’s quite an array of stuff they can pump into you to make you talk. Whatever they can lay their hands on. Sometimes it’s a mixture of chemical substances. Illya is pretty sure his captors mentioned mescaline among other ingredients, so no wonder he starts hallucinating after a while, left alone for the horrific mess of drugs to soak in.

Napoleon, annoyingly elegant in an impeccable navy suit, walks around the cellar regarding the drab surroundings, probes at the grayish peeling paint on the wall with one finger, critically, and shakes his head. “These people have no class whatsoever.”

Of all the things Illya could have imagined, of course it’s him.

“How are you doing so far?”

If Napoleon were here for real, Illya might have tried to pretend he was all right, but there’s no need to lie to a hallucination. He’s far from being fine. He’s dizzy and nauseous, and his leg hurts so much he can barely stand, but if it gives out under him, it’ll put too much strain on his handcuffed wrists. So he tries not to slump, no matter how tempting it is.

“Still alive,” he says hoarsely, more to himself than Napoleon. It’s the only good thing he can think of.

They have bandaged the bullet wound on his thigh, albeit sloppily. But mostly for their own sake, so he won’t pass out from blood loss before he starts talking. In the process, he’s managed to head butt one of the thugs who’s been holding him. It hasn’t made them more delicate.

He probably should be grateful he hasn’t been subjected to old-fashioned methods of torture in addition to simple pummeling—some criminals are either too fastidious or overly progressive nowadays to use pliers and blowtorches—but at the moment, he doesn’t have much strength for gratitude. What’s worse, he doesn’t have the strength, let alone enough room to tear out the metal pipe his handcuffs are attached to at a very awkward angle, with his arms pulled up taut above him.

“Hold on just a bit, Peril. It’s not for long, I’m sure,” Napoleon tells him. To Illya, it sounds more ominous than optimistic, given that it’s his own subconscious speaking. Realistically, his chances to last until someone finds him are pretty bleak.

“Why haven’t you called for backup, Peril? I thought you didn’t mind working in a team now. At least with me.”

“Don’t talk about work,” Illya warns.

_Or better yet, don’t talk at all, not to yourself, you fool_.

“Are you tired of it? Ah, I understand. You suspect you might not stop if you start spilling secrets. It must be very confusing. There’s no one else in the room but us at the moment, I assure you, but fine, let’s choose another theme for a conversation, to distract you.” He steps closer and brings up a hand to Illya’s handcuffed wrist. “Where is your watch, Peril? Have you lost it again? I can’t retrieve it for you all the time.”

Illya suddenly wishes the touch were for real, just a second of comfort. But apparently, he hasn’t gone insane enough yet for sensory hallucinations.

People rarely touch him if it’s not for the purpose of hurting him or patching him up afterwards. It’s always impersonal. A part of his work. He never thought it bothered him, but now that his mind is a churning bog, with bits and pieces of jagged memories and unwanted thoughts swirling around, he’s suddenly longing for something more. Maybe just a palm pressed to his cheek, maybe fingers entwining with his, if only for a moment. It’s not like he wants much, does he?

Not much, but perhaps too late. Napoleon had already asked him about the watch before, when Illya had just arrived back a week ago, but Illya hadn’t said anything then. Moreover, had rebuffed Napoleon for prying, angrily. He couldn’t bear to talk about it, he’d had reasons not to, but nevertheless, it’s not the way friends behave. He can’t expect kindness in return.

“You keep ignoring me,” Napoleon complains sadly. “Maybe I should visit later?”

_Don’t leave_ , Illya almost begs, overcome with pain and exhaustion. He knows all of this isn’t real, but it suddenly feels like he’s drowning under a column of loneliness. He’ll suffocate in it, he’ll die. Well, he’ll die anyway, and maybe sooner than his careless captors expect because the loose bandage on his leg is already drenched with blood. But he doesn’t want to be alone when it happens. It shouldn’t make any difference—he’s been living on his own for too long to care—and yet… It must be the drugs robbing him of the last vestiges of logic.

“I buried it,” Illya says in a raspy voice. “My watch. When I last went to Moscow.”

Napoleon tilts his head curiously. “Why did you do that? Another mystery. I always wondered why you kept it. From what I understand, your father was a thief who got caught. Still your father, yes, but why would you want a constant reminder of his shame?”

Illya huffs out an unhappy laugh. “You’re so naive, Cowboy. You trust KGB files meant to be leaked to the CIA. Yes, he was condemned for embezzling party funds. He even signed a confession. Doesn’t mean he did it. People confessed a lot of things back then, during the purges. Being enemies of the state, saboteurs, spies. It just took some… persuasion.”

Napoleon blinks at him, blue eyes so close. “Oh. But I thought he was a friend of Stalin, or at least someone in his close circle.”

“You don’t know how it was, in the late thirties and early forties. Lots of power games. Lots of paranoia. Party authorities were getting rid of former friends before they became adversaries. He survived the infamous year 1937 when most of the purges happened, but then was taken right before the war. I always wondered: what if it had started sooner? Maybe he’d still be alive.”

“Why did you join the KGB then? A part of the system that had destroyed your family?”

“It was the only way …” He swallows hard, knowing full well he shouldn’t say this, but words he’s never said to anyone else come out like water through a broken dam, “…the only way to get to those who were responsible. Not right away, no. But if I worked hard, if I became the best, I could gain access to information. And _people_.”

You can do a lot when you’re a KGB agent. Talk to whoever you want, get archive materials, including transcripts of interrogations. Open closed doors, figuratively and literally speaking.

After Stalin’s death, the purges had been denounced, and yet the same people had kept the same ranks, the same privileges, as if only one person and his close associates had been at fault. Sadly enough, that was part of a power struggle, too, most likely. So Illya had always had only himself to rely on to restore justice, the way he saw it.

For a well-trained agent, it’s not so hard to kill someone and make it look like an accident or a natural death. It had taken time, though, so no one would get suspicious as to why certain people suddenly died one after another.

And now it was all done. He didn’t know where his father was buried, or if he had a grave at all, so he’d made a sort of cenotaph beside the graves of his grandparents—laid his watch in the ground there, as a symbol of a fulfilled promise, a secret he’d successfully kept from everyone. Publicly, he’d renounced his father; he couldn’t have become a KGB agent otherwise—they would have considered him unreliable. And yet he’d only had to look at his wrist to always remember the truth, remember his goal.

It was a stupid, pretentious gesture, burying his father’s watch like that, but he’d felt sad and desolate and hadn't known what else he could do, apart from what he’d already done.

Revenge had been the aim of his life for years—and suddenly the beacon was gone, the work was finished. He’d never had other wishes, other reasons to continue living.

Maybe that was what had made him so unsettled when he’d returned from Moscow, reeling from the sudden emptiness. Napoleon had kept asking if something was wrong with him, but he couldn’t talk about it, hadn’t wanted to, or maybe he had, but couldn’t force any words out. He’d been choking on his secret, so used to hiding inside himself and never trusting anyone that it had become second nature. That was why he’d chosen a mission on his own, apart from his team, and ended up here.

“Are you going to leave the KGB now? Maybe not at once, so it wouldn’t look odd, but later?”

Illya’s lips twitch. “The KGB is for life, Cowboy. Besides, I don’t mind the work. I’m serving my country. I’m good at it. If there are corrupt people within the system, it doesn’t mean the whole system is wrong.”

Napoleon doesn’t look convinced, but Illya doesn’t feel like arguing right now. It’s all wishful thinking anyway. It doesn’t matter what he might have been planning if he bleeds out in this cellar.

He’s drained of words, too—he doesn’t remember the last time he’s talked this much—and tired, so tired.

Isn’t it funny he’s unlikely to have a grave as well, just like his father?

“I think I’m going to pass out soon, Cowboy,” he says. “Could you…”

He doesn’t know what to ask for, though. A good-bye hug? It would be awkward—and moreover, he won’t feel it. An eerie thought: maybe Napoleon wouldn’t feel it if the touch were for real. Maybe it’s _he_ who has always been just a hallucination for others. A fake. A vengeful ghost pretending to be a living person but unable to be one. His body has been merely a means to revenge, and now that the quest is complete, it’s not needed anymore—he can dissolve into nothingness. Because nothingness is what he is, in the end. He’s been concealing his true self from others for so long that he doesn’t know where to look for it anymore, if it even still exists.

There’s some faint noise coming from above, breaking through his misery.

“I’ll go investigate,” Napoleon says cheerfully. “Maybe it’s the cavalry.”

“Cowboy…” Illya calls after him in desperation, but of course Napoleon doesn’t listen and disappears from sight in the dim-lit end of the basement, leaving Illya all alone to shiver from exhaustion and blood loss and chemicals tearing at him from the inside.

The good thing is the pain has somewhat dulled down, thanks to the drugs perhaps. It’s still there, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters.

When Napoleon reappears, he’s wearing dark tactical gear instead of the posh suit. It’s more fitting for the scene, Illya must admit. He says so.

“Are you drugged, Peril?”

Spot on. And moreover, his hallucination finally becomes sensory, just like he wished. He feels Napoleon grabbing at his arms as he’s trying to pick the handcuffs. There’s even a whiff of breath as he mutters a curse along with, “Why do you have to be so tall?”

When the lock finally gives, Illya staggers forward heavily, and Napoleon barely manages to catch him and hold him upright.

He gets the hug he wanted after all. It’s nice.

“I’m glad you approve. Can you walk? I got rid of the guards, but the building is full of people, I’m afraid, so we have to sneak out as quietly as possible.”

It’s unfair that Napoleon has been chiding him about not calling for backup, while he’s obviously guilty of the same thing himself.

“I do have backup, and she’s waiting for us outside,” Napoleon comments tersely. “We decided getting you out right now was preferable to having a squad ready for taking down everyone a few hours later. Weird priorities, I know. Come on, Peril, lean on me, let’s move.”

He doesn’t really mind that Napoleon is half-dragging him somewhere, but it’s not easy progress, with his injured leg buckling under him. He tries his best to keep quiet, per Napoleon’s wish, for what feels like an eternity of walking through endless corridors, like in a nightmare, and only makes a strangled sound when Napoleon loads him into the backseat of a dark car.

“Sorry, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs. He squeezes himself in beside him and has barely closed the door when the car sets off.

“Is he all right?”

Gaby. It’s nice to dream her up, too, though he’d rather she was beside him as well, not behind the wheel, out of reach.

“See, he’s pumped up with drugs and talking … well, a bit more than he usually does. Probably doesn’t realize it. Doesn’t make much sense either.” Napoleon checks the bandage and tuts disapprovingly. “I’ll make the tourniquet tighter, but the faster we get him to a hospital, the better.”

He’s talking like Illya isn’t here, and again, it feels like being a ghost, despite Napoleon’s hands pressing at his thigh, reminding him both of his corporeality and mortality.

“Serves you right for playing a hero on your own,” Napoleon says, but without much venom, arranging Illya’s body so he can slouch more comfortably against him. “That’s what you get for your heroics. Happy now?”

Strangely enough—almost. Or more exactly, at peace. With Napoleon’s arms encircling him, he dares to suspect, very vaguely, that this might be real after all. Now would be the right time to go then. Better than in a cellar, alone.

“Don’t you dare die in my car!” Gaby warns fiercely, not turning back to him.

He doesn’t want to upset her, but he doesn’t want to lie to her either, and not just because he seems to be unable to.

Napoleon’s breath is pleasantly warm against Illya’s clammy skin, and so is Napoleon’s voice. “Keep talking to me. Stay with me, will you?”

Is it an offer? He might have been tempted to take it up, though he isn’t quite sure what it entails. But anyhow, ghosts can’t promise anything, can they? It’s not like they have to offer much in return either. There’s not even any anger left, the only emotion that has kept him going like fuel. He wishes there was something else instead of it, something to replace it. Words not measured and weighed, touches not out of necessity.

“Peril. Illya…”

But no matter how much he wants it, he’s already slipping, fading away into the nothingness he is now…

…When he becomes aware of his body again, drowsily so, he’s not in a car anymore—nothing is shaking and rattling. He can feel linen against his skin. It smells heavily of starch, and there’s also a faint scent of disinfectant mixed in. His brain is fuzzy, but in a different way now, subdued rather than over-stimulated. Morphine? Hospital?

His eyes come partially open, eyelids heavy, and the first thing he sees when he turns his head, having caught a small movement to his side, is Napoleon settling down in a chair beside his bed.

“Looks like I woke you up, Peril. I thought I was stealthy, but you probably have a built-in radar against us capitalists. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Illya croaks out, just to check if he’s able to lie.

Napoleon sighs exaggeratedly. “Well, if that’s your national definition of _fine_ , I really hope to never experience the Russian version of _not fine_.”

“Are you even allowed in here?”

“Of course not. But I’m a spy, remember. I can let myself in even when I’m unwanted.”

Illya isn’t quite sure he can interpret Napoleon’s smile. Sad? Tired? Tired, most likely.

“Gaby will replace me soon,” Napoleon adds, as if to reassure him. “That is if she’s as good at sneaking past medical personnel.”

“Need to tell you something later. When … not so sleepy,” Illya mutters. 

Repeating his story to the real Napoleon without being drugged will be hard, but if he ever dares to tell someone, it should be him. Gaby, too, but Napoleon first; Illya owes him an answer. It’s pretty much handing out his life on a plate—ready blackmail material and a potential death sentence. But if he can’t do this, what’s the point of staying alive at all?

Napoleon rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Look… If it’s about the things you said… We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’d rather we decide you were delirious if you end up embarrassed and snapping at me otherwise and I’ll have to make it all into a joke somehow.”

The problem is, Illya doesn’t quite recall what he might have said after their escape. He’s struck by a vivid tactile memory, though, of how much solace it gave him—being so close, pressed to each other, and not feeling guilty about it. Could he only have this on the verge of dying? Should _he_ make it into a joke?

“I’m not … not good at it, I know,” he stutters, trying to fight off the fog in his head and failing.

He’s unused to caring for the living, including himself. He doesn’t know what he wants and how to explain it.

“Don’t be angry at me, Cowboy,” is the only thing he knows to ask for.

_Don’t leave_ , he doesn’t add, but his fingers twitch, reaching towards Napoleon on an impulse before he aborts the treacherous movement.

“I’m not angry,” Napoleon says after a pause, and unexpectedly, his palm closes over Illya’s hand. “Sleep now. Everything will be fine. Not the Russian kind of fine, mind. The normal one.”

With his eyes closed again, Illya waits for him to eventually pull his hand away because compassion has its limits, but Napoleon doesn’t, and slowly Illya gets used to its comforting weight. Drugged or not, he doesn’t have the right words for this. But come to think of it, words, English or Russian, are often either superfluous or insufficient, even if they are meant to be true. His only hope is that they are not always needed.

And if so, maybe he has something to live for after all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want more hurt/comfort and angst (and some fanart), you can check out [my Tumblr blog](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com/) :)


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